Latibule
by folkloric
Summary: Estranged from his regiment, Thor becomes lost in the mythic woods of Svartalfheim to discover a tower that carries an uncanny youth and the key to solving a mystery that has dogged Asgard for centuries.
1. 0

"Tell me the story again." He makes his request as the pitcher of water pours its contents over his head. He's temporarily pulled into darkness and the suds gently cascade down his face and into the water he sits in. To him, the story he has requested is better than any of the others that he can understand, the ones in his books that line the walls are too complex, too dense in their wording and he loves it when his father tells it to him. Nails tease his scalp and he shivers at the sensation, and he shakes his head, pulling away as it becomes too strong to bear. Above him, his father scolds him and he turns to look up at his father, neck arching sharply as he looks up and back, pushing the hair the color of a magpie's wings from his face.

"Father!" He whines, his pale skin is bright against the dark color of the water that he sits in.

"Alright, alright, little one turn around." says the man in the chair who was unlike the child in the bin has hands the color of a pale plum. With a grin of triumph the child faces forward in the bathwater. The elder plunges his hand into the water and when he withdraws it, a thick hank of hair in his palm. He begins to brush the hair as he begins to recount the story.

"Your father was a King. A King made of Ice and Snow and that no one, no matter who they were, always feared. He was a King that was respected, who knew no honesty, no compassion, no love. All he knew was war and snow and to his people, he was terror in the night wind. One day, he grew tired of his ice and snow and considered, why not the land of the elves to the north? They had trees, and earth and mountains and his cousins of the mountains lived there as well."

"So he became greedy and brought winter."

"Aye, but do you want me to tell the tale or would you like to tell me?" His father asks and the plum skin hands pick up the submerged pitcher and pour it over the thick middle of section of hair he is currently combing. The child becoming restless twists around and is quickly scolded.

"Do not move, or do you want to stay in there all night?"

"No!" The water splashes and hugs the rim. "Tell me about the war!"

His father sighs and lets go of the hank of hair to forcefully turn the child's head foreword.

"You and warfare. There is more to war than unorganized running and stabbing. There are other, better, ways to do handle it-"

"The war!"

"It was a terrible war." He sighs in frustration and his child is delighted."Those to the north were unsuspecting of it but they rallied quickly. Those of the forest, elves, and those of the mountain, trolls, came forth and fought valiantly." The plum fingers begin to braid the hair quickly, his child docile. "But it was after many months, did the King realize, though both the trolls and the elves were fierce warriors that his war might be lost. So he sent a courier on a task: find the King of the Aesir, for he must help them. So the courier ran-"

"How did he run?" Excitement lines the words in the princeling's tone.

"He used the Roads. Bridges that can cross the sea of stars, to other worlds, to other times. The courier left the throne room of his King and one step he was in his world, and the next he was amongst the stars. Bright balls of light and fire, filled with various peoples and creatures. He ran across the worlds on his Bridge until he reached the brightest of them all: Asgard. When he reached the home of the Aesir, he was met by the great vanir Heimdall-"

"Who had stars for eyes!"

"- the All Seeing -yes, who had stars under his helm, Ikol _stay still_- and when he approached Heimdall, he was not greeted but barred. The great guardian of the Brifrost, the grandest of all Bridges would not let the courier pass. So the courier, who had been denied, did what any good courier would do: he went around his impasse. Instead, of travelling across the Brifrost, he traveled another Road, one hidden even from the eyes of the great Heimdall. Following this hidden Bridge he came before the King of the Aesir, Odin. Odin was furious that the courier had gotten passed Heimdall and had entered his great hall but the courier pleaded, 'My people are dying, help us.' But Odin, the who had deemed himself Allfather, told him no."

"Because the elves and the trolls could handle this all their own!"

"Yes, because they should have been strong enough to hold off the Jotun, all alone. Come." He lifts the child out of the bath and with a wave of his hand, the water pulls itself up and out and flies out a far window. Ikol escapes his slippery fingers and runs to watch, the water cascading down, down, down until with a wet slap, it greets the earth. The child stands on his toes as he looks out, not mindful of the still wet braid that drags on the floor like that of a tail, his excited breathe coming out in a puff of mist the further out he leans. His father wipes his hands on a fur and he calls for his son to come and the little boy leaves the window, covered in skin as pale as milk and with eyes glowing like emeralds, to sit by fireplace and to beg more of the story as his father begins to dry him.

"So the courier returned to his King and the courier told the King what he had learned. The King was furious that Odin had turned his back on them. Enraged that his courier had been barred from even seeing him, the King of the Aesir became known to the elves and trolls as Odin All Liar and Odin Liesmith, for how he had promised to help but turned his back. Without Odin's aid, the King of the Elves pushed on, daring his subjects to question him. If Odin believed that they could win without his help, why shouldn't they? Odin's great lie, that the elves and trolls could push back the Jotun without his help, came to fruition. The elves fell and the trolls fled and the Jotun took this land for their own. The King of Ice and Snow rejoiced! For many days they feasted and to celebrate this victory he set his eyes on his next conquest: Midgard. It was the jewel of Odin's eye but had he not just taken down the elves and the trolls with ease? So your father's men packed up their things for war."

Ikol kneels in the front of the fire as his father clothes him in a night shirt and the elder settles on his chair. The heavy braid slick with moisture dampens the cloth on Ikol's back immediately and he moves it to lay in front of the fire. Steam begins to rise immediately from it.

"...and oh, how Midgard trembled under your father's gaze. The mortals trembled at his steps and no matter where they ran, winter chased them. The finest warriors, the greatest generals stood no chance against the King and they all began to fall under his sway. But this time, your father did not win the war. Odin the Liesmith descended upon the Jotun with lightning and spells that blinded even the most stubborn of Jotun, with thunder that deafened the most defiant. With his men, Odin and the Aesir matched on the King of Frost's men and vanquished them as if they were nothing but vapor. But what did Odin call them when he demanded an audience with King Laufey? _C__riminals_. Why? Because the King of Frost had torn Midgard asunder but Odin did not bring up the case for Svartalfheim. Odin did not even broach the topic of the fallen elves and trolls, the Liesmith was furious that Laufey had dared to harm his _preferred_ realm and cared not for the plundered world he had ignored. And do you know what the Liesmith demanded?"

"Me." Ikol answers with anticipation and the father palms his son's cheek. "He asked my father what his most precious thing was and my king-father said, me."

His father opens his arms and the little prince willingly settles into his lap, the long tail of the braid falling off of knee, and Ikol mindful of the coals quickly tugs it outside of the reach of the mouth of the fireplace and he looks up to his father, pride shining.

"Yes, Laufey's most precious possession was his son. Odin demanded both you and the great Casket of Winters and Laufey withdrew. He would give up the Casket but give up you? He would do no such thing. Such an uncharacteristic show of emotion slowed Odin's pull for you but did not stop him. He approached Laufey this time but with a different bargain: he would hold onto you. He claimed you would be a prince of Asgard, and your father, the King of Frost and Ice relinquished you. Believed you to be kept alive and safe as the living truce between two Kingdoms but what did Odin do?"

"He threw me away." The little prince whispers, his pride submerged by sadness. His tiny fingers clinging to his father's sleeve.

"Ah, He _tried_ to throw you away," Algrim's voice is soft. "But I found you. Odin had thrown you to his dogs and you lay tiny, weak amongst the hay. He had tossed you away as he had just been brought another son, tiny and golden and not of his queen's womb. Your cries had mixed with the baying of his hounds who called for your blood as they could not reach you. But I found you, and I spirited you away. You were too precious a jewel to toss, swaddled in stained cloth, I brought you here to protect you from the Liesmith's wrath."

"What did Odin do?"

"Odin cared not for you as he had his own son to preoccupy his thoughts. His queen had cared even less now that the new son had made its presence known. But your father? When King Laufey had gotten word of what happened to you, he was furious. He called upon the spirits of his forefathers and when day came, winter came to Asgard."

"Is it still winter there?"

"Aye, there hasn't been a summer in years."


	2. 1

It's the beginning of a new day but not any day but the First day.

He rises on this day just before dawn, the sun's gaze lightly beginning to reach the tips of the trees surrounding his home. As he awakens he stretches, his back arching and arms raised high. When he releases, he bows forward, sleep still in his eyes, his hands restless on the worn comforter. It's just dim enough that with his night vision he can see the rough patterns on the comforter against his thin fingers and he tiredly traces the outline of a pattern as he contemplates curling back under the covers and resting till midday.

He vetoes that notion as he brings up a hand and threads it through his hair and it stops abruptly and he tiredly winces. A knot. He makes a quick jerk and in response, he repeats his wince with a cringe as he raises his other hand and gently coaxes his trapped hand free. With a yank he's able to free his hand and immediately the pair dive back in, his head tilting as he divides his hair and pushes strands aside until the knot is revealed. It's thick and feels larger than it truthfully is but he gets to work. Another ten minutes and the knot is free, the tangle an easy fix, the actual separation and parting his hair? Not so much.

In the dim lighting, the sun is coming closer now, a thin blade of brightness carving its way into the darkness of his room. He pushes his thin blankets his knees and carefully pushes a dark mass off of his bed. A low thump echoes in the room and his bedside dresser trembles before he steadies it, a mental note ticking in his head to fix it. He does not bother to turn on the gas lamp on the table nor pick up several volumes of books that have tumbled to the floor as he leaves the bed itself, the dark mass following him as he walks to the window.

As he stands at the window, thin blades of light cutting into his body, he takes a shuddering breathe, steam escaping his thin lips as one eyes peers into darkness, the other the light. He closes both as he clutches the window shutters and pushes outward. The cold nips at his bare arms immediately and he makes a sour face as he slowly opens his eyes and looks at the world around him. The forest trees are nearly reaching the height of the window, and the morning mist swirls about them. The fog a dense grey that looks as if it were solid as water, the tree tops looking like stubborn rocks in the stream. His eyes sting at the reflection of the sun on the mist and he leans out and looks downward, his hand resting on the sill. As he does so a strand of hair slides from the edge of his ear and falls downward, resting lightly on his shoulder. With an absent hand, he moves to brush it past his ear but it only loosens it and with him leaning out of the window it falls...and falls.

It curls about itself and stops its fall halfway down the tower, bouncing, swinging and twisting in a morning breeze. He yawns, loud and large, his whole body trembling with the feel of it, his toes curling, his fingers becoming claws. The dark mass that drapes him shivers and he turns from the window and gazes into the room. His bed is the same as it has always been for his life- large and sturdy, it is a four poster that is pushed into a nook. Its wooden legs and arms decorated in a plethora of carvings from his childhood and is worn. The side table leaning wearily to favor its left side is on his side of the bed, and a bookcase stares unevenly back across from his window covered in slouching books. There is a short banister denoting a short staircase to lead to the world beyond, more carving decorating its spindly legs. The door beneath his landing is open, its hinge creaking agitatedly as it swings from the morning breeze that comes from downstairs.

It isn't these things however that tiredly hold Ikol's attention, it's the hair- his hair, the lazy river of threads his father used to claim that it was like silk that covers his room. It drapes itself in slouching curves on the thinning beams of the skeleton of his canopy on his bed, it pools itself on the smooth wood beside him and winds itself on the sparse carpeting just before his bed. It twists and turns like calligraphic swirls around the room and Ikol realizes his floor looks similar to the trees outside. Instead of mist covering a forest, his hair covers his floor and instead of trees peaking through its books- small and thick, tall and small they decorate the small patches of flooring that aren't covered. His bedroom door creaks angrily again but pauses, the river of hair no less most likely blocking it from closing slamming shut as it would like to.

Ikol leans back against the sill, his arm moving to push his hair in front of his shoulder so he doesn't have to sit on it. He yawns again and covers his mouth this time as the sunrise begins to warm his back.

"Let us begin this." He mumbles and he pulls up the long strand with a sharp flick of his wrist and it eagerly bounces upward to him. He begins to gather his hair, one arm becoming laden with the thickness as the other tries to pick it up and keep order to it. He shuffles about the room, nearly tripping on hidden books or knickknacks, his feet smarting from a sharp edge or two as he nears his door. Both arms are full when he makes the treacherous trip down the short flight steps, his footsteps delicate and testing. Praying he does not have a repeat of last month where he had tripped and his hair had gone flying and releasing the tangles had been miserable business.

* * *

It has taken several weeks for this moment but he must finally admit it: he is lost.

The forests of Svartalfheim are thick and encompassing- large enough that stories are still sung in his father's mead hall, tales of armies vanishing under the twisted boughs of the trees. That even if were one to climb, they would be greeted with nothing but the sight of the forest and sky above. That no matter the magic or skill, no warrior of Asgard or any other realm had ever returned. What better time to test this theory, then his current time? Fifty feet below a bundle of leaves that had been ensnared to make his bed rustle as new leaves from above drift down to join them.

Mjolnir is a heavy weight on his side as he stomps into the joint of the branch, making sure it is steady before he bears his full weight upon it and reaches upward. He takes a steadying breath as he repeats the process and hisses as he misplaces his hand and bark angrily scours his skin. He grasps the offended branch and with a mighty heave he pulls himself up to the next tier of branches and is rewarded with the glare of the sun on his sweat slick back. The warmth pours into bones, his muscles relaxing under heat and he groans in relief. The formidable chill of the forest eases out of his body and after two more branches he stands at the top of the tree and surveys the world around him.

His vision is filled with sky above and the forest before him. He blinks wearily as he continues to look about him. At the bottom of a valley, the hills around him are covered in stark trees that come together as one being to stare at him, and for once in his life the son of the Allfather feels insignificant. He sees nor hears any of his father's infantry, no bright colors nor shouts of war. He had left his men's company on what now seems a fool's errand, one that had only mattered in pride, one in which he cares not to remember.

He shields his eyes from the sun and Mjolnir hums at his side. Dropping his hand he reaches for her and with the other he steadies himself as the tall tree sways as if sighing from his weight. He presses the cool metal to his lips before with a small toss, grabs her by the tassel and begins to swing her vigorously. In response, her hum turns into a whistle as with a great leap, he is airborne and no longer apart of the forest of Svartlfheim and no longer a small fish lost in a sea of many predators. Above the trees and approaching the height of the great hills and mountains in the distance, he flies upwards, looking for a sign of hope. But what lays below and beyond him still is the trees- trees that now vary in color and shapes, no longer the shapeless, single color but of variations that stretch from a rich blackened hue to even that of a pale so brilliant to his eyes that they appear to be white yet winter hasn't touched this land in an eon.

He is struck by the grandeur of it, the colors melding and mixing together as if a great painting and for the first time he can see why the elves had clung to this land so desperately. He stops his climb and from there goes forward over the land, looking for any break or accident that would stand out in a landscape that prides itself on being indecipherable. Over the trees he flew, so fast it was if he were going over the waves of the great ocean that expanded and surrounded his own home of Asgard. As he flew, he finally saw it: in the distance there was a tiny trail of smoke that penetrated the great expanse and in his excitement he roars. Finally! There was the signal he has been looking for!

He pursues now with greater speed, the pinpoint trail of smoke slowly growing from that of a speck to that of a trail and from a trail, to that of a roof and chimney and-

It strikes with such a terrible cry that it makes the trees beneath them tremble and some of them bow forward and he is given just a moment to glance back before sharp talons attempt to imbed themselves deep inside. His breath leaves him as the full weight of the large eagle bears down on him, Mjolnir's whistle lost sharply as they're both sent tumbling back into the forest. The trees snap like twigs, the leaves now pines feel like needles and imbed themselves into flesh as he tumbles and his adversary too is caught- the large bird screeches in frustration as the fall bears the two of them apart. He is caught by a limb before he greets the earth, his stomach expelling both air and fluid as it falls directly upon it and his limbs suddenly feel swollen and large as gravity pulls at them.

His head rings as he weakly hangs on the branch, the needles sticking out of his arms and back as if he has suddenly acquired quills. Blood from many cuts and scrapes begin to pool and bleed and he lowly groans as his sore throat protests. What remains of his trousers are shreds but the tough hide of his boots have weathered this abrupt storm. With a shallow gulp, he unsteadily begins to dismount himself from his perch- Mjolnir is down below, her handle sticking out of a shallow stream. He attempts to make his descent slow but his strength leaves him and instead he falls- it has been weeks since he has had a proper meal and even before his adventure through this forest, he had been on a great field waging battle.

He lands in slick mud and refreshing water, the later soothing some of his hurts and gently plucks the needles out of his back. He stands- no matter the pain, he is _Thor_, son of the Allfather and Prince of Asgard and not one to crawl or exasperate his aches. He is heavy footed when he reaches for Mjolnir and he bends down to grasp her when his foe appears. There is a knoll just a few yards from him and through the thin veil of his hair he can see it staring down at him. It is massive now that he can properly see it and a deep wound in his shoulder suddenly aches as he fully stands with Mjolnir in his hand. The eagle is tall, tall enough that the tree is stands besides no longer look majestic. The thick plumage does not mask the muscle of this beast and the sharp curve of its beak looks strong enough that if it was tempted to grasp him with it, he is certain that it could snap any limb off, even if he were to wear Asgardian armor.

It's head twists to the side, giving him the sharp profile of his majestic face but it is the eyes- dark and soulless that make Thor tighten his grip on Mjolnir and dig his heels into the mud and water.

He is Thor, son of the Allfather and Prince of Asgard. He will not fall to such a beast.

* * *

It takes him the day to wash his hair.

By the end of it he is exhausted: his back is hunched, his shoulders are stressed and his fingers are sore and his palms ache. A headache has blossomed into a migraine and his eyes are heavy with the want of sleep. He's done and that's all that matters as he tiredly stands before the window on the lower level of his tower. He reaches up, his fingers curved and pulls down a heavy brass hook. The curve of metal is larger than that of his own head and he tests it out, pulling down sharply, once, twice and is satisfied. He loops a lower midsection of his hair, his knees creaking as he bends downward and grasps it. With fatigue he pushes the lower portion of his hair out of the window, the thin strands cascading out of his window like a dark waterfall. His hair slick with moisture makes a wet slap as it greets the outside wall of his tower and moisture shakes itself free from the dark tresses.

Like that of a pulley he pulls his hair through the loop, water running in rivulets through and across his knuckles causing him to pause momentarily several times to wring his hands of it. He stops releasing his hair into the night about half through, even though there are still wheels of hair on the floor next to him, soaking on the fur laden floor. He gathers the rest of his hair into his arms and begins his trek up the stairs and to his bedroom. Mindful of the furs strewn about, he marks his path. Reaching the base of the stairs, he loops his hair once around the base of it and then continues his slow trek upwards.

When he reaches his bed, he all but collapses on it. There's still a wheel of hair in his hands but it's alright, he's in his _bed_. With a final push, he tosses his hair over the thin skeleton of his canopy. The bed creaks the sudden, solid weight of it and Ikol looks up sharply as the canopy quivers and stills. He sighs, pulls off of what little remains of his clothing and sleeps.

* * *

It takes him three days journey to reach his destination and for those three days march, he did not sleep. As he marches forward, he drags the carcass of the great dire eagle with him in one hand and Mjolnir in the other. Exhaustion. Fatigue has long fleed, the ache in his stomach no longer there and the echoes of exhaustion push to the forefront. There is little that remains of the great eagle- with sinew he has tied the great beak about himself and for the rest of the body, there are only pieces left. He has been forced to break this great bird as a way to pay for his travel through this portion of the forest of Svartlfheim. Great wolves- to the size of those of the dire and of their leader, even larger then he and they, have dogged his steps. His grip tightens on the great talon as he takes a small leap and the broken body with its rotten offal and sheared bones follows suit. He doesn't need to look back to know the great pack leader is following him personally, as if an honor guard.

The smell of smoke is sharp now and with it, it wakens his body. His nerves suddenly singing for the first time since his great plunge. It does not bring joy however but pain- the aches are returning with greater frequency: the hole in shoulder which has attempted to knit itself but has continually opened is beginning to awaken. His ribs, his legs, his feet- he no longer wants to think of this, and thus he doesn't. He forces the pain away from the forefront and focuses on the problem before him: the growing weeds and the growing thorns that have gone from being sparse, to suddenly bloated. The weeds are low and stunted but the thorns- the thorns twist and cover the ground like a thick coat, their needles long enough to be of use in sewing. Their sharp tips press dangerously into his boots and the further he goes in, the more he begins to hear the whine of frustration from his unsought companion.

The carcass between them is a dead weight that snags on everything and anything, and Thor's march is one that is now forced to one that has him nearly at an incline: his shoulders thrusting forward and his arm tense as the sound of snapping bones and the wet rip of flesh is heard easily for those who want to hear it. The needles dance in his vision, his posture still proud that he will not try to twist and dance in this grove as it will do him no good. His focus is on the smoke, his foot falls and of his companion at his back who has inched closer the further in he has gone. There comes a stopping point however as he realizes that the ground he has been standing on has gone from being that of earth to the thorns itself, that the solidness he has been able to find with careful steps have given way to the bouncing and unsteady rhythm of something that is scarcely bearing his own weight.

When he looks back the wolf is patiently waiting for him, less than several yards away. It sits, it's back straight as any blade, its eyes staring deep into his with a knowledge that Thor knows it shouldn't possess. The bird between them is rotting but it isn't truly beyond hope, the chill of the forest has seen to that. He turns on the unsteady thorns and leashes Mjolnir to his side and with a great heave he throws the once proud eagle to the wolf. It lands with a final crunch and a what is left of a wing splays toward the wolf. The two predators stare at each other over it, Thor proud and the wolf considering. Thor releases a low breath as the wolf, with its knowledge bound eyes staring, gently drops its muzzle and grasps the bird and with silent steps, walks away. Thor continues to stare at the wolf until the mighty haunches are gone from his sight.

He turns from the forest then and looks to the thorns before him, gleaming in the scarce moonlight from above. He paces before a steep drop that would send him into more thorns but before him, past the thorns, he can see it. Even in the night and with clouded vision, his mind is playing no trick: there is a grass and with that grass there is a clearing and in that clearing the smell of smoke originates. He leaps and he does not resist the urge to call out, one leg sinking deeper into the ravine than the other but he pushes up and forward. He will not stop now, not when he is so close to a possible sanctuary. The travel within the ravine of thorns is short but agony, the thorns puncturing and piercing. Cutting and slicing and when he grasps the first handful of dirt and grass, he knows that he is weeping. He grabs himself bodily and fully out of the thorns and onto the grass and he pants and lies there. The skyline suddenly empty yet so utterly full of stars, more than any he has cared to notice in some time. There is a gurgling sound and when he turns his tired head and then body to look, there is a brook full of clean and sweet water with gay flowers and tall grasses surrounding it. A well is near to it and it is then, he realizes there is something quite larger than a well that he has been too tired to see.

There is a tower.

He twists from lying on his side to being on his knees and his neck aches sharply when he looks up. The tower is as tall as the trees and from what he can tell just as old. The stone looks weathered but functional, the house upon the tower looking to be in good shape and stature. He can't tell from his vantage but the roof looks to be of working order, the open windows clean and not covered in webs. What catches his attention however is the threads. Long black threads spill forth from the window as if a fall of spilled ink and his hands ache to touch it. He rises and heads toward it, the thin strands gently moving in the night breeze that for the first time he realizes is there. When he raises a battered hand to it, they dance around it, some of the thin lines curling around his calloused fingers and he shivers at just how _soft _it is.

He calls out and gets no response from the window above and he walks the circumference of the tower and sees no door. He is beyond the help of Mjolnir, who coos to him at his side, his exhaustion and his injuries making her use too dangerous even for him. He sits at the base of the tower, the black threads caressing his face, the smell of poppies dancing about him when he realizes what he must do. He stands and makes a silent prayer to the Allfather as he leans against the stone and grasps the delicate strands about one hand and places another higher up, turns and with a heave he places his feet upon the tower wall. The strands do not slacken or break, in fact they strengthen and Thor's uncertainty fades and determination sets in.

He scales the tower at an even pace, and he finds the challenge to be harder than climbing the tree all of those days ago. There if he had begun to fall he would be able to hug the bough of the tree or grab any limbs if he were to fall. With this climb he realizes as he grounded himself with a staccato of breathes and looked down to the distant ground below, if fell he would have nothing to grab to except more of these strange silk strands. They were able to bear his weight now but what of them if he were to drop and swing? There was a dampness to it that he wasn't expecting either, the tighter he grasp, the more tiny rivulets of water would appear and sting his scared hands. There was no guarantee and sweat was heavy on his brow when he reached the brace just below the window where his rope had come from. With a deep breath he pushed from the wall and his arms shook with sudden ferocity before he was able to grasp his legs around his rope that suddenly seems too thin and too weak to hold his weight. With a great shuffle and heave, he pulled himself up those few feet and reached the sill and tumbles through.

His boots make a thunderous calamity when they hit the smooth wood and Thor can't bring himself to care as he's _here. _He's in his refuge from the forest and he doesn't care if Hela herself appears before him because all that matters is to find a bed or anything close to it so that he can collapse in it.

"I should have drank from the brook." He gasps out as his head presses against the sill and his back now slick in new sweat, the old sweat and of old wounds and refresh reopened wounds presses against the cool stone of the wall.

The room is sparse in furniture but even with little furniture there is, its rich in its design. There is a great fireplace before him, the mouth covered in intricate designs and craftsmanship. Within a metal grate there are burning embers, the fading source of the smoke that had first alerted him to the presence of this place. Besides this great mouth of the fire place there is a battered couch, clearly having been patched throughout the years and a multiple blankets strewn about the floor. To his left there is a small kitchen, bowls stacked neatly into piles on a counter, a table with chairs for two denoting where the kitchen and the living space separated. There is a sloping staircase that begins to the right of the fireplace, and it take takes Thor a moment to realize the strange shapes cutting into the wall between these three aren't in fact strange slots but books- multiple volumes of books.

His eyes rise from the books to a partially closed doorway when he is given pause. The same black threads he has used to climb up are coming from the room. He looks to the strands beside him and follows it with his eyes and confusion washes over him. He bends his neck and sees a large brass hook above him, holding the black threads that drop water onto his head.

With a creak and a groan he stands, his curiosity piqued and he makes his way to the upstairs chamber, following the lazy river of threads. He treads carefully up the steps, Mjolnir a sure weight on his hip as he quietly pushes open the door and is greeted by a landing and a short staircase of six stairs. Before he takes them however, he looks up and sees that the black silk is stretched tightly around the newel and from his vantage he can see more of the hair resting on thin wood of a canopy.

He takes his steps with greater caution and he comes to the head of the stairs, his breath is lost. The room is covered in designs and carving, so many he cares not to decipher them now. When he takes a step forward, his boots sink into layers of thick skins and he traverses these skins and field of fallen books to spy what has caught his breath. There is a bed in the center of the room, the canopy he had spied beforehand belonging to it. The thick black silk he realizes now is not silk but hair. Long, thick and unreasonably strong hair. In the center of the bed lies a thin figure transposed in sleep, a thin, pale arm holding a thick wheel of hair as if a stuffed toy or a pillow. The rest of her is covered in a thin blanket, hair partially covering her face so that he can only spy the bridge of a nose, and one delicate eye. She looks to be of the Aesir and for that he is glad and a large weight removes itself from his shoulders. Mjolnir is quiet by his side and he is tempted, oh, he is tempted, to touch this strange creature though his life of war and adventuring have taught him _do not touch _and he foolishly does.

The single eye he can see opens with confused weariness and a soft groan.

"Ma'am-"

She screams. She is out of the bed faster than he expects and the wheel of hair she had been holding, moves with her expectantly, a soft _shush _drowned out by her screaming.

"What are you doing here!?" Her voice, Thor realizes is lower and not as shrill as he expects. She attempts to put as much space as she can between them, so much that she tumbles into her window. Her hair is pulled taunt and she makes a small sound of frustration as her head and shoulders are pulled sharply forward. She steadies herself enough to raise an arm and grasp the hair and yank it to herself, the hair moving quickly over wood to come to her. The tension easing out of it, the hair no longer clouds her face as she pulls it to the side, showcasing a sharp profile and Thor truly sees the person before him.

"You are a man." He stands dumbfounded and the creature from the bed looks scandalized.

"Who are you?" She. No. He punctuates each word as he stands, the fear is still there but not as strong as indignation and the confusion.

"I am Thor," he says plainly.

"What are you doing here." The strange youth does not take his eyes off of him but his hands are fidgety, they wind themselves through the dark hair.

"I am need of a place to rest-"

"No." It's sharp and quick.

"Just for one night, I swear to you," He palms the flat head of his hammer. "That I shall trouble you for one night. I will reward you handsomely for your help."

"Why should I trust the _creature," _His possible host pronounces the word with such loathing that Thor is taken aback. "That has climbed into my tower smelling of fetid stock, and looking to have rolled in mud, sweat and blood and...and..." The youth is at loss and is pointing at the eagle's beak Thor has forgotten he has secured on his person.

"An eagle's beak."

"...carrying an eagle's beak," The dark haired youth finishes the statement with a look of confusion and his tone thick with it.

They come to an uneasy silence, neither knowing how to approach the matter at hand. The youth's eyes never Thor fully but Thor can see him working something in his mind, his hands have never stopped fidgeting, his gaze sweeping from the canopy to the door that was below them.

"You will not leave will you?" There is resignation in the tone.

"No."

"If I let you stay, you will give me a reward? You are not out to make light of me."

"I swear upon my name."

"I wish for-" He doesn't get to finish his sentence.

Thor drops likes a great stone onto both the floor and upon his bed, the force of it making several books tremble and a few pieces of pottery clatter. It makes Ikol jump back at his window and he curses as his hair, still caught in his bed reminds him sharply that he can't go back that far.

"Thor?" He calls out in the silence that follows after everything is settled.

His response is a deep, rumbling, snore.

* * *

Thor lies, he does not sleep for a night.


End file.
